MIA
by CSIvHP11
Summary: Words. Three simple words. 'Missing in Action.' No words had held such power over her in the past. No words had clenched at her heart in such a way. No words had cut into her soul as these did. At least, no written words. Bering and Wells. ImagineyourOTP prompt
1. MIA

**Imagine Person A is drafted into the army, after a period of four years, Person A stops communicating back and disappears, then shows up years later on Person B's doorstep, who has been waiting for them this whole time**

She ran her fingers steadily over the words. It had been years since they had trembled in the same action.

Words. Three simple words. 'Missing in Action.'

No words had held such power over her in the past. No words had clenched at her heart in such a way. No words had cut into her soul as these did. At least, no written words.

_"Drafted? You've been drafted?"_

_"It isn't my choice, Helena. The war with North Korea isn't going as well as anyone expected, and we need troops."_

She moved her fingers slightly. More words. 'Captain Myka Bering.'

_"I'm an officer, Helena; I'll be slightly safer than the young boys they are pulling in."_

She folded the paper carefully. The folds were ready to rip at any moment, but Helena would not let it happen. Her last communication regarding Myka.

She stood up, and carefully put the paper back in its place on her desk. She ran a finger over the solitary frame on the desk.

She couldn't help but glance at the picture. Myka in her Dress Blues, sitting in front of an American flag.

A smaller picture had been tucked in the corner over the glass. Helena clinging to Myka, dressed in her ACUs, in an airport.

_"I will be back before you know it. Time couldn't keep us apart; do you really think some crazy dictator will?"_

She walked through the B&B, to the kitchen. Everything had changed in the past nine years.

Claudia had officially become the Warehouse Caretaker. New agents had come and gone. Artie had practically retired. Jinks had taken over his job. Pete had come back from the war with intense PTSD. Myka had not come back at all.

_"They aren't sure when we will able to come home."_

_"It has already been almost a year, darling."_

_"And from rumors I've heard, it may be another year."_

She pulled out the kettle, and started to heat some water for tea.

The war had caught the United States by surprise; in the middle of downsizing their military, and the North Koreans being better equipped and better skilled than expected. They had been forced to not only institute the draft, but include females.

It had completely changed the style of warfare. It had become a mix of tactics used in the Middle East, and those used in the first Korean War.

Troops were kept on ground for over a year, then were given the shortest R&R leave possible.

_"It's only two weeks, darling."_

_"It's better than nothing, Helena."_

The water finished, and she poured it into her mug with the tea bag. Two knocks filled the house. Helena jumped, splashing water onto her hand. A curse slipped from her lips.

She ran her hand under some cool water, and wrapped it in a clean towel.

She turned to the hallway and froze. Her mind turned to the last time someone had knocked twice.

_"I'm sorry, ma'am."_

_"They will find her, Helena."_

She forced the memories away. There was no way this could be that bad.

She walked to the door, paused to take a breath, and opened it.

"Myka?"

_"I love you, Helena. I promise, I will come home."_

**I don't own them.**


	2. Prisoner

_Myka is finally back from the war, but, is she? Or is she still a prisoner?  
tw: ptsd_

She kept her eyes shut.

Eyes shut. Eyes open. It didn't actually make a difference in her vision. The sack over her head cut off light anyway.

Still, she kept her eyes shut.

It hadn't taken her long to figure out that by keeping her eyes shut, and not straining against the burlap induced darkness, her body focused on her other senses.

Hearing especially. She relied heavily on what she heard.

Currently, there were four men guarding her. The one guiding her with his hand around the back of her neck, and his gun pressed to the small of her back, right between her bound arms. One a few feet ahead. The two others a few feet behind. They were all silent, but their shoes clicked against the concrete.

They all stopped in unison. She stopped too. They had walked her to this room enough for her muscles to have memorized every step.

Hinges protested as a door opened, and they were moving again. The hand on her neck tightened as she was forced to move again.

She knew the moment she had entered the room. Footsteps echoed differently. The air held a staler scent.

The door closed, and she was forced into a kneeling position. The bruises on her knees protested as her weight was put on them, again.

"Dangsin-eun jigeum malhal geos-inga?"

Her tired mind worked to translate the words. _Will you talk now? _She still wasn't sure how she felt about the Army having her learn Korean. She could understand the basics of what they were saying, but her captors knew she spoke their language, and tried to take advantage of that.

"I," she gasped, "am Captain Myka Bering, 20-713-423, born April 9th, 1982."

Her voice was rough, and cut through her throat. A split in her lip re-opened at the movement. It was all she ever said anymore. They kept her, as well as the other officers they had captured, isolated, and she had yet to be reduced to talking to herself in her cell.

A muffled conversation started somewhere behind her. Her brain struggled to translate it, but she got most of it.

_"I promise you, sir, she is one of them." _That was the commander of the camp she was in. She had never seen the man, but his voice was hard to forget after so many interrogations.

_"What proof do you have?" _That voice was new. It was low, and the language was obviously not it's native one.

The commander barked at one of her guards. _Gabang_. Bag.

A hand roughly grabbed the sack on her head, and pulled. A few strands of her hair were pulled from her scalp with the bag. She figured they were soon going to shave it off again. It nearly reached her ears.

She kept her eyes closed. There was no reason for her to open them. She didn't want to see her captors. She didn't want to see her prison.

Footsteps sounded. The steady thuds of high quality boots. The man circled her a few times before stopping in front of her.

_"It looks like the one," _the man said. He leaned in close. His breath hit her skin. Her eyelids twitched at the contact. "Open your eyes."

Her eyes almost opened in shock. English. She hadn't heard English in ages. Defiant to the end, however, she managed to keep them closed.

A hand grabbed her chin, and forced her head to tilt up.

"I said, open your eyes."

She squinted them open first, to test the lighting in the room. After a moment, and making sure it wouldn't be painful, opened them half way, blinking constantly. Sheer exhaustion prevented her from completely opening them.

She didn't know the man crouched in front of her. His pale eyes were cold. He had no hair on his head, but stubble on his chin. His nose had partially healed sunburn on it.

As they looked at each other, he started to grin.

_"Yes," _he addressed the commander, but held her gaze. _"She's the one. I can take it from here, thank you."_

The commander ordered the guards out of the room, and soon followed suit.

The man let go of her chin, and stood back up. His eyes never left her.

"You," he grinned, "are going to tell me everything I need to know."

"I am Captain Myka Bering, 20-713-4…"

"No, no, no," he laughed. "That's not what I want, and you know it."

"I am Captain My…"

His hand moved. Before she even registered the movement, however, she was lying on the ground. Her cheek was throbbing. The split in her lip had widened. Her arm ached beneath her.

"That's not what I care about." He bent down, and pulled her back to her knees. He wiped some dust from her sleeve, and crouched in front of her again. The smile was back on his face.

She watched him with blank eyes. A little pain wouldn't hurt. She was in a constant state of pain anyway. New pain was actually becoming its own perverse sense of relief.

He leant closer to her, and whispered in her ear.

"Tell me everything you know about Warehouse 13."

-oOo-

She gasped as consciousness came back to her. Sweat was rolling down her forehead. Her heart was racing. Her muscles were tense.

She rolled her head over to look at the clock. 0328. She hadn't even been asleep for four hours.

She sat up. Her hair, long once again, fell forward to frame her face. In the past, years ago, she would have pushed it back. It would have bothered her to no end to have it in her face like that. Now, however, the curls were a comfort, a reminder that she was back. That she was home, away from that place.

She turned so she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her feet planted in the rug. The fabric felt odd against her skin. Too soft. Too nice.

The dream continued to rage through her mind. The voices. The scents. The pain. The fear.

The temptation.

That had been the worst since she had been freed. The knowledge that if she had simply answered their questions, it would have stopped. The knowledge that a part of her mind had tried to convince her to give the information up.

_The Warehouse can care for itself. You can only take so much more of this. The Warehouse has the Regents, and Artie, and Mrs. Fredric, and Helena, and Claudia, and Pete, and Leena. Who do you have? Who is taking care of you?_

That even a piece of her was willing to give the Warehouse up cut through her.

She had told none of them about the man. Not even the Regents knew. She couldn't help but hope that if she didn't tell anyone, she could escape from the memories.

She couldn't escape any of it, however. It was still there, destroying her mind.

The emotions she had been forcing down started to rise up. The fear. The panic. The pain. Even the blankness she had fallen into by the end.

They tormented her. They took over her mind. They refused to let the memories sink back.

The sack over her head. The rope around her hands. The language differences torturing her already exhausted head. His eyes boring into her.

Him. His questions. The pain he brought.

As she sat there, the blankness started to take a prevalent stance. It scared her more than she would admit, even to Helena.

How do you tell someone that you just didn't feel anymore? That you wish you could cry, that sobs would reduce you to a shaking mess, but you can't bring them forward? That you can't even bring the emotion they require forward?

She jumped when arms slid around her waist, then relaxed when she recognized them. She twisted slightly, in order to rest her head on Helena's shoulder, her nose just brushing Helena's neck.

Everything about her wife helped to ground Myka in reality. The scent on her body wash and shampoo. The feeling of her body against her back. The agile strength of her arms embracing her. The gentle rocking of her body. The fact that she held Myka the same way multiple nights a week.

It pushed her fear back. It pushed her panic back. It pushed her pain back.

It brought forth the things she needed to feel to fill the void she had fallen into.

It pushed the memories back into Myka's mind.

They weren't gone. They were never gone, and would constantly be crouched just below the surface, ready to strike at any moment. When she was in Helena's arms, however, they couldn't touch her.

She was safe. She was free.

**I don't own them, still.**


End file.
